Read After Burning
by Zeplerfer
Summary: America suspects an ulterior motive when England arrives with thousands of donated books after the Great Chicago Fire of 1871. Historical oneshot.


**Rating:** T for historical deaths.

**Other announcement:** As some of you might have noticed, _Quidditch House Rules_ was taken down. I'm going to post a revised version soon, so my plans for the college AU have been pushed back a few weeks.

* * *

_Wyoming Territory, October 8, 1871_

America gasped and bolted upright in his bed.

In a moment of panic, he mistook the burning feeling in his stomach for a rekindling of his recent Civil War. As the terrible pain began to subside, he breathed deeply and reminded himself that the war was finally over, even if it had cost him dearly. In a flash, America remembered the blood on the sheets and the long night spent watching the President die. The whole nation had mourned, and so had he. He shuddered. This feeling was different from war and the assassination, though still gnawingly familiar.

Trying not to disturb the other men sleeping in Fort Bridger's dormitory, America crawled out of his bed. He lit a candle in the corridor and walked to the small storeroom where the Pony Express riders kept their maps, using the small light to illuminate the maps tacked to the walls so he could pinpoint the source of the pain. The flickering flame drew his eyes to an area along the shore of Lake Michigan where he somehow _knew_ major fires burned, wiping out everything in their path. America had passed through Chicago years ago on his way West, and he remembered the wooden buildings that filled the city. He could only imagine the terrible destruction caused by an uncontrolled blaze, but he was too far away to do anything to help.

America grit his teeth in frustration. He hated the feeling of absolute hopelessness that stole over him. A hero was worthless if he couldn't protect people. Resolving to take the first train east in the morning, America returned to his bed. He ducked under the sheets, closed his eyes, and tried to block the pain. He tossed and turned as nightmarish images of the fires filled his mind: a terrible, growing hell-red light, the crash and roar of the conflagration, and the desperate flight of the crowd.

He jerked awake and nearly fell out of bed as a heavy hand clamped onto his shoulder, rousing him from his fitful sleep in the early dawn light.

"Whoa, Alfred! Are you all right?" one of the other men asked, a gruff mountain man who had taken a shine to America's constant cheerfulness.

"Right, yeah..." America muttered something about indigestion and pulled himself out of bed, untangling himself from the sheets. Between the lack of sleep and the lingering effects of the war, he was sure he looked terrible.

News hadn't spread to the Wyoming Territory yet, so he had to feign ignorance at breakfast, talking with his fellow travelers as if nothing terrible had happened the night before. As far as the others knew, he was just a skilled hunter on his way home after working on a geological survey of the Yellowstone River.

The survey leaders planned to travel west to Salt Lake City next, and they bid "Alfred Jones" a fond farewell.

Waiting for his east-bound train, he watched his spangled banner flapping outside in the chill autumn breeze. _Oh say can you see by the dawn's early light_...

It wasn't until he reached Fort Kearney in Nebraska that America heard the full and terrible news. The Great Chicago fire had burned for three days, as the city's wooden buildings went up like kindling, fueled by a drought and heavy winds, leaving more than 300 dead. He found it much harder to find news of the _other_ fire. To the north, a wall of fire had swept across a million acres of forest in Wisconsin and Canada, killing everyone who hadn't managed to jump into a river or well.

America arrived in Chicago to find ash and rubble where tall buildings had once stood. Joining the ranks of volunteers, he put his strength to good use distributing crates of donated food and blankets.

But amidst the destruction he found a small measure of hope. Each day more money and goods streamed in from across the country, from Maine to Omaha, rekindling his faith that the wounds of the Civil War had finally begun to heal.

* * *

_Downtown Chicago, December 7, 1871_

As the months passed, America had no trouble finding work and even less trouble making friends.

"Hey, Alfred! Are you ready for lunch?"

"Always," America replied with a smile. He pounded the last few nails into place and jumped down to the floor. Grabbing his sandwich bag, he joined the other laborers as they gathered in a circle near the roaring fireplace of the nearly completed hotel.

In a matter of weeks and months, temporary buildings had sprung up throughout the burnt areas—a necessary protection given the chilly Midwest winters.

One of the older men flipped through a newspaper and started to laughed. "Looks like some folks have proposed putting the _cow_ on trial," he said with a loud snort.

"I guess we'll have to find a jury of twelve cattle," another joked.

"Shouldn't be too hard with the stockyards."

America joined the others in laughter. Out of the corner of his eye one of the headlines caught his attention. "Could I see that?" he asked.

Scanning the paper, he frowned as he read the article. Given the number of books in private collections destroyed during the fire, a wealthy British businessman had written an editorial suggesting a book donation. The last line twisted like a knife: "I propose that England should present a Free Library to Chicago, to remain there as a mark of sympathy now, and a keepsake and a token of true brotherly kindness forever."

His friend leaned over to read the page. "What's the story, Alfred?"

America shook his head, reminding himself that the actions of an English businessman had nothing to do with him. "Just... some Brit wants to give us a library," he explained.

"I wish they'd give us a new saloon, instead!"

The group laughed and agreed.

* * *

As the weather warmed, the construction jobs picked up again. America liked holding a hammer and nails in his hands; it made him feel like he was doing his part to help Chicago rise again. The frenetic pace of construction continued—filling the city with grander, taller buildings.

Even when he wasn't working, he loved to watch the buildings rise like mushrooms after a spring rain. From his perch on the scaffolding near the lakefront, he could watch ships sail into port. America smiled to see trade resume, since it was the lifeblood of the city and the nation. But he nearly fell from his perch as a _presence_ flitted across his mind. Burying his memories of the many times he had fondly waited for this presence, he raced down to the docks and looked for the wind-swept blond hair he knew he would find.

"Careful with the crates!" a crisp voice shouted, directing laborers as they unloaded boxes from a newly arrived ship flying the Union Jack.

America slowed to a walk as he approached his goal. England glanced his way, but unfazed by America's sudden appearance, continued to bark orders as he sized America up. "America," he said, tipping his hat to acknowledge the other nation.

A human wouldn't notice the small signs of a nation trying to heal its scars, but England would, and could, and did. He undoubtedly saw how America's clothes were just a touch too big and the slight pallor of America's normally golden skin. Compared to England, America felt like a gangly calf. England wore his wool frock coat with complete ease, like it was his second skin. An emerald tiepin held his silken cravat in place, and his imperial bearing created the illusion of height. (On that point, at least, America could still feel a small measure of superiority.)

"England, what's this about?" America asked, crossing his arms warily as he watched the crates carried past.

England arched his eyebrows and smirked. "Why, these are books. I believe you must have seen at least a _few_ in your life."

America snorted. "I know why the books are here. I want to know why _you're_ here."

The British Empire shrugged, as if crossing the Atlantic was a minor manner. "To ensure that you take care of them properly. Some of these are from the Queen, you know, and I would hate to see them ruined."

"I'm surprised you can drag yourself away from fighting Russia," America retorted, not believing England for a moment. He wasn't as skilled at diplomacy as the older nations, but even he could tell England wasn't being straight with him. An English donation of books wasn't normally important enough to warrant a nation's personal attention.

"Yes, Ivan is such fun, isn't he?" England smiled, showing far too many teeth to be friendly. "I still think you made a foolish mistake paying for Alyaska when you could have simply claimed it instead."

America frowned. "I don't work that way, England." He was tempted to add, _I'm not like you_, but decided he would rather not have to deal with an angry England.

"You'll change your mind in time," was all the other nation said before he turned his attention away from America as an adjunct approached with a stack of papers. England skimmed the papers and shook his head. "Was that the best they could offer?" he said derisively, before handing the papers back to his apologizing assistant. He huffed and started following the men with crates.

"Wait! Where are you going?" America protested, using his longer legs to catch up. He was damned if he was going to let a foreign nation, especially one as dangerous as the British Empire, walk around _his_ city unsupervised.

England barely spared him a glance. "To see that my books are stored properly."

America stayed silent as they walked into downtown Chicago, the heart of the burnt district. To him the new buildings springing up all over the city looked amazing—a glorious testament to his people's can-do spirit. Fire burn down your house? Build a new one! Make it strong, better, prettier. He snuck a glance at England, wondering what the other nation thought of his rapid rebuilding efforts. England's face was carefully blank. He was probably bored and thinking of the next country he planned to colonize.

They soon arrived at the former water tank that was destined to become the city's first public library. The outside looked like a normal stone building, albeit one with a black metal tank at the top. The inside was something else altogether. The circular sides of the tank had been lined with bookshelves stretching toward the ceiling, with rolling ladders so visitors could access the higher shelves. A center pillar held aloft the old pumping system, most of which had been gutted and replaced with skylights. Chandeliers hung from the remaining trusses, although they were unnecessary given the abundant daylight filtering in from the windows above. The stone water towers were among the few buildings to survive the fire, making them the safest spot in the city.

"Rather... unusual design," England remarked, his green eyes skimming over the reading desks as he watched the workers load books onto the shelves under the direction of the head librarian. England ran his fingers over the spine of a few books, touching them as if they were old friends. Knowing England, they probably were. America wasn't surprised to see _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland _among the donated books, although he was surprised that it (and its lesser-known sequel) had been a gift of Lewis Carroll himself.

America opened a book at random and saw a red-and-black bordered card on the inner cover noting that the book was a donation made as "a mark of English sympathy" and listing the donor. He checked a few other books and saw the same card in each.

England's eyebrow arched upward when he saw the book America had selected. "Ah, you've found another donation directly from the author."

"You sure do like to rub your victories in Spain's face," America replied as he flipped through a few pages of _Westward Ho!_ He reminded himself to read it later, he always loved tales about pirates. He had once enjoyed listening to them directly from England, who has both a skilled storyteller _and_ a former pirate, but those days were long past.

England shook his head. "I'm afraid it's horrendously inaccurate. They always are."

"Perhaps you should write your own to correct the record," America suggested mildly, amused at the idea of pirate stories written by England himself. He smiled at England, inviting the other nation to share the joke. This was likely the most genial conversation they'd had in over a century. How unsurprising that the topic was literature.

They spent another half-hour wandering through the shelves and sticking to light conversation. Despite his laborer's clothing, no one questioned America's presence. One of the inherent abilities of a nation was to fit in perfectly anywhere in his country. And no one challenged England either. His clothes marked him as an obviously wealthy man and it was well known that the rich could do whatever they well pleased.

America started to wonder if England truly had just visited because he cared so much for his books. He clearly treasured them all. A complete collection of modern works in all departments of literature, as he lovingly described them. Still, America remained dubious that transporting books was England's sole objective.

"I've seen enough of the Book Room. Would you like to knock back a pint?" he suggested, knowing that alcohol typically loosened England's tongue.

"Drinks before dinner?" England hrrmphed, playing the part of a perfect gentleman when they both knew he had spent most of the 1600s drunk on grog. "That won't do. No, come to my room later. I don't trust the quality of your saloons."

America snorted as the walked toward the doors. "Honestly, England. You're just as highfalutin as France sometimes."

England didn't rise to the bait. "Say what you will about the Frog; at least he has refined tastes," he replied calmly. One his way out the door he donned his hat and reminded America to "wear something appropriate!"

America stuck out his tongue at the departing nation's back.

* * *

Hours later, America entered the Palmer Hotel in a suit that still smelt of mouthballs. He tugged on the jacket, but no matter how he readjusted his clothes, the suit still felt too confining. He much preferred the suspenders of an honest man's work clothes.

Still, he wasn't the only man in the lobby who looked a little uncomfortable in a suit. America considered it a point of pride that his citizens weren't as fancy, finicky, and overdone as the fusspots of old Europe. He strode confidently through the grand lobby and took the staircase to the finest suite in the newly built hotel. He knew England well enough to know that the imperial power would settle for no less than the very best.

England's assistant took his coat and hat and showed him into the salon, where an ornate fireplace kept the entire room warm.

A few scraps of burnt paper in the fireplace caught America's eye. He bent down and fished out the pieces, wondering what secret missive England had intended to destroy. Only a few lines at the bottom of the page had escaped the fire, written in England's beautiful copperplate cursive:

_whatever misfortune may befall your country  
or my own, the peace and friendship which  
now exists between the two nations will be, _

America frowned, wishing he could read the full sentence. It was hard to think of any country the British Empire could describe as a 'friend.' As far as America knew, England only had possessions and rivals.

Hearing England approach, America stuffed the scrap into his pocket. He accepted a glass of apple brandy and wasn't surprised to see England drinking rum. They reclined in the plush armchairs and silently sipped their poisons of choice. America sighed and tried to think of a casual way to discover England's real reasons for visiting. The sneakiness didn't come easily, he'd always been too much of a straight-shooter.

Sitting next to the fire felt comfortable, a reminder of times long past, although England had never let America drink anything harder than cider as a youngster.

England glanced at America over his drink as the silence dragged on. "I accompanied my diplomats to the District of Columbia to settle the Alabama Claims," he remarked unprompted. "I was surprised that you weren't there."

America heard the unasked question and grimaced. "Well, there was the trip to Canada to congratulate Mattie on the new Constitution and then I had to work on negotiations with Russia. And I've been busy in the west," he added, though the excuses sounded weak even to his own ears.

"How long has it been since you visited D.C.?" England asked, cutting to the point.

"Seven years," America mumbled, staring into his brandy. "Since '65." When he finally looked up, England gave him a surprisingly sympathetic look.

"The first one is often the hardest," England remarked, gazing into the flames like he was lost in a memory. "You cherish them all... but the great ones... they're rare and precious."

America nodded. Of course, his first great leader had been Washington, but Washington died in his own bed at an old age. America had mourned, his sadness leavened by his immense hopes for the future. Lincoln—cut down because he was starting to rebuild a scarred nation—had been a different matter entirely. Just when America believed the nation safe, he had seen his hopes cut short. Leaving D.C. had been an easy decision, and he'd never seen a good reason to return.

"Your reconstruction is happening apace," England remarked as the silence lengthened. Although America was normally the talkative one, he still felt out of sorts, so the burden fell on England to make conversation.

America blinked, thinking for a second that England meant reconstruction in the former confederate states, which wasn't going well at all. Realizing that England meant _Chicago_, he grinned. "I like the new 'fire-proof mayor' they elected. He'll be the one speaking at the grand opening of the new library, once it's ready. Think you'll be staying 'til then?" he asked, realizing that it might be nice to have England's company for once. Books sometimes bored America, but England's stories never did.

"No, I've accomplished what I needed. I should be off."

"Well, I'll make sure they take good care of the library," America promised after he finished his brandy and set down the glass. "Thank you, England..." he paused a moment to savor the surprised look on England's face and casually added, "...for the books."

* * *

_Springfield, Illinois, October 15, 1874_

America placed his hand on the marble tomb and smiled sadly. Grant had given a good speech at the opening of the monument that housed Lincoln's tomb. Not as stirring as some of Lincoln's speeches, but America tried not to hold his presidents to an impossible bar.

He walked over to the collection of wreathes and mementos that visitors had left for the Great Unifier. America added his own slip of paper to the pile, a single line of text from one of Lincoln's own letters.

America remembered during the Civil War when Lincoln had received a letter from the workingmen of Manchester, informing him that they support the Union's efforts, despite the hardship a shortage of cotton had caused in their factories. He and Lincoln both had worried then that Great Britain would side with the Confederacy, so any gesture of support was well received. Although he fondly remembered Lincoln's gracious reply, it had taken America some time to connect that letter with the burnt scrap he found in England's fireplace.

He imagined England trying to find the right words for a letter, borrowing another's words, and tossing the final result into the fire when he lacked the courage to send it. It reminded America of all the letters he had written himself and never sent. In the end, the letter hadn't been necessary, because England's calm presence was enough along with the realization that England had sought him out personally, that England had been _worried_ for him, not that he would ever admit it.

America's handwriting wasn't as neat as England's, but he had written out the full quote.

_I hail this interchange of sentiment, therefore, as an augury that, whatever else may happen, whatever misfortune may befall your country or my own, the peace and friendship which now exist between the two nations will be, as it shall be my desire to make them, perpetual._

To which he added:

_I will do my best._

_Eternally yours,_  
_Alfred_

Along with President Grant's entourage, America boarded the next train heading east. He thought about Chicago rising from the ashes, and he felt confident that together they could rebuild the South. And perhaps, one day, he could even rebuild another relationship he had once considered damaged beyond repair.

In the meantime, he had a Centennial Exposition to plan.

* * *

**Author's Notes**

I normally write fluff-and-cuddles USUK, but I thought it would be interesting to explore a different era in their relationship. Also, as soon as I read about the English Book Donation, I knew I wanted to write a story. England giving a bunch of books to America? Yep, that sounds about right :)

I fear, however, that my efforts to write in the cadence of a different era have gone astray. Oh, well.

**Historical Notes**

The main events are all true, although I had to fill in the details with guesswork. Here's the stuff that is historically accurate:

The Hayden Geological Survey of 1871 was the first federally funded, geological survey to explore the area that would two decades later become Yellowstone National Park. The survey official ended when they reached Fort Bridger (a fur trading outpost located along the Union Pacific railroad and the Pony Express).

The Great Chicago Fire of 1871 burned for three days because of dry conditions and wooden buildings. Approximately 300 people died and thousands lost their homes and belongings. Between two and three million books were destroyed from private library collections. That same night another fire raged further north, wiping out the city of Peshtigo, Wisconsin, and burning millions of acres of forests. Between 1,200 and 2,500 people died, making it the deadliest wildfire in U.S. history. (Poor Peshtigo, it never gets the same attention in the history books.)

As an aside, although the fire started at the O'Leary family barn, the reporter who first claimed that a cow knocked over a lamp admitted two decades later that he made up that story. The Chicago City Council officially exonerated Ms. O'Leary and her cow in 1997.

The English Book donation was proposed two months after the fire. London businessman A. Hutton Burgess and Thomas Hughes, a member of Parliament, recruited donations of books and other printed material for Chicago. They eventually gathered 8,000. The donors included Queen Victoria, the Prime Minister, Oxford University, Cambridge University, and many famous authors, such as Lewis Carroll and John Stuart Mill.

The donation inspired the Illinois Library Act of 1872, authorizing cities to establish tax-supported libraries throughout Illinois. (Other states acted a bit sooner: the official Boston Public Library was organized in 1852.) Up until this point, most libraries were privately funded and many charged admission or usage fees. The library was indeed located in a former water tank until a new building was constructed in 1895, after the World's Fair in Chicago. I've posted a picture of the water-tank library on my tumblr (which is also under the name zeplerfer).

The British working class population, particularly the cotton workers suffering from the Lancashire Cotton Famine, remained consistently opposed to the Confederacy. The residents of Manchester went as far as to pas a resolution in support of the Union and send to Lincoln. His letter of reply became famous at the time, including the line that I included here (you can easily find the full letter online). That's why there's a statue of Lincoln in Manchester, with part of his letter carved on the base. I like to think that the letter expressed Alfred and Arthur's feelings well :)


End file.
